ISSUE 67

Thank you for buying Simply Sinful Chocolate. We craft luscious, bountiful mellifluousness that melts, nay, dribbles in corpulent gullies to a sea of succulent sweet that suffocates you gently, like tumbling into a pool of melted marshmallows. The smooth notes of lilting nougat, caramel, and cocoa lift you above the harsh clamor of the outside and settle you into a melody of smooches. It drowns your senses in a train wreck of tortuous, drawn-out metaphors, leaving you confused as to how you’re supposed to feel. Am I drowning or listening to music? What’s going on here? What happened to my family? Why am I handcuffed to a hospital bed?

All you need to know is it was worth it, despite how much you ramble on like an alien abductee. Normality? Our sweets completely remove you from it, from pain, from love, from door-to-door solicitors. We like to call it: “The Pilgrimage To Chocolate Hedonism,” which gives the whole thing a religious feel that’s a little evil, like Satanism without Satan.

Know that unlike other brands, you need to dive deep into the pool of wickedness to try our chocolate. Gluttony, lust, multiple homicides—these sins are nothing compared to indulging in a piece. In fact, it is the only brand of chocolate to be condemned by the Catholic church, who believe it to be the sweet referenced in John 3:29, “And sitting on the mount, Jesus sayeth to his brethren, ‘A temptation not yet seen cometh, a great chocolate that will cause cavities of teeth and evil greater than that of Ricky, that little shit from down the street. Bless him.’ ”

We don’t know about that, but we will say our chocolate has ruined more Democratic health initiatives than apathy. Simply mentioning our brand name is enough for the rise and fall of dictatorships, for women to disown men, for men to disown their favorite football team, for dogs to disown that tree they’ve sniffed for the past three minutes.

Having a piece of Simply Sinful means you will become far more attractive than God ever intended a human to be. It may not seem like a burden now, but women and men will throw themselves in front of your car, beg you to make love with them, and take you captive and beat you to death in a sexy pillow fight. We don’t say it won’t be a burden, simply that dying at the hands of an overeager college co-ed or a man with brawny forearms is a better way to go than most.

At this point, you may be asking what specifically makes our chocolate so good. It all begins with the world’s best chocolatiers, who aren’t even chained to the wall this time. They have joined with top sweet connoisseurs, physicists, theologians, and Maria, the kindly grandmother from next door, to blend the perfect chocolate bar.

It took them fifteen years and materials sourced from the farthest reaches of the globe: Nigeria, Switzerland, Ecuador, London, and the Safeway down the road. But eventually—after the crew broke up and reunited more times than Stan and Jessica—they did it.

In the end, the secret happened to be trace amounts of heroin along with super-secret chemicals, powdered black rhino horn, and human, though no one you know personally… unless you know a lot of Ukrainians. Then it might be someone you know.

With these ingredients, our chocolatiers crafted the master chocolate to control all others. And into this chocolate, they poured their cruelty, their malice, and their will to dominate those people who take their truck too seriously. Eventually, we will enslave all humanity, which is why our motto is, “Until the masses kneel.”

The ingredients, the process, the sinfulness—these are why we skip straight-forward words like “sweet” and “good” and wander into the furthest reaches of the English language, stumbling along like an under-caffeinated schizophrenic with directions to the nearest Starbucks. We have also learned that we are never paying a writer by the word again.

So ask yourself: Are you ready to float on the soft melodious moos of milk chocolate? Or catapult into a freakish cataclysm of dark chocolate? Or perhaps careen down a smooth slope of sublime white wooziness? We don’t really care, as long as you don’t tell anyone about the heroin.